When Noel and old Tabaret were seated face to face in Noel's study,
and the door had been carefully shut, the old fellow felt uneasy, and
said: "What if your mother should require anything."

"If Madame Gerdy rings," replied the young man drily, "the servant
will attend to her."

This indifference, this cold disdain, amazed old Tabaret, accustomed
as he was to the affectionate relations always existing between mother
and son.

"For heaven's sake, Noel," said he, "calm yourself. Do not allow
yourself to be overcome by a feeling of irritation. You have, I see,
some little pique against your mother, which you will have forgotten
to-morrow. Don't speak of her in this icy tone; but tell me what you
mean by calling her Madame Gerdy?"

"What I mean?" rejoined the advocate in a hollow tone,--"what I mean?"

Then rising from his arm-chair, he took several strides about the
room, and, returning to his place near the old fellow, said,--

This sentence fell like a heavy blow on the head of the amateur
detective.

"Oh!" he said, in the tone one assumes when rejecting an absurd
proposition, "do you really know what you are saying, Noel? Is it
credible? Is it probable?"

"It is improbable," replied Noel with a peculiar emphasis which was
habitual to him: "it is incredible, if you will; but yet it is true.
That is to say, for thirty-three years, ever since my birth, this
woman has played a most marvellous and unworthy comedy, to ennoble and
enrich her son,--for she has a son,--at my expense!"

"My friend," commenced old Tabaret, who in the background of the
picture presented by this singular revelation saw again the phantom of
the murdered Widow Lerouge.

But Noel heard not, and seemed hardly in a state to hear. The young
man, usually so cold, so self-contained, could no longer control his
anger. At the sound of his own voice, he became more and more
animated, as a good horse might at the jingling of his harness.

"Was ever man," continued he, "more cruelly deceived, more miserably
duped, than I have been! I, who loved this woman, who knew not how to
show my affection for her, who, for her sake, sacrificed my youth! How
she must have laughed at me! Her infamy dates from the moment when for
the first time she took me on her knees; and, until these few days
past, she has sustained without faltering her execrable role. Her love
for me was nothing but hypocrisy! her devotion, falsehood! her
caresses, lies! And I adored her! Ah! why can I not take back all the
embraces I bestowed on her in exchange for her Judas kisses? And for
what was all this heroism of deception, this caution, this duplicity?
To betray me more securely, to despoil me, to rob me, to give to her
bastard all that lawfully appertained to me; my name, a noble name, my
fortune, a princely inheritance!"

"We are getting near it!" thought old Tabaret, who was fast relapsing
into the colleague of M. Gevrol; then aloud he said, "This is very
serious, all that you have been saying, my dear Noel, terribly
serious. We must believe Madame Gerdy possessed of an amount of
audacity and ability rarely to be met with in a woman. She must have
been assisted, advised, compelled perhaps. Who have been her
accomplices? She could never have managed this unaided; perhaps her
husband himself."

"Her husband!" interrupted the advocate, with a laugh. "Ah! you too
have believed her a widow. Pshaw! She never had a husband, the defunct
Gerdy never existed. I was a bastard, dear M. Tabaret, very much a
bastard; Noel, son of the girl Gerdy and an unknown father!"

"Ah!" cried the old fellow; "that then was the reason why your
marriage with Mademoiselle Levernois was broken off four years ago?"

"Yes, my friend, that was the reason. And what misfortunes might have
been averted by this marriage with a young girl whom I loved! However
I did not complain to her whom I then called my mother. She wept, she
accused herself, she seemed ready to die of grief: and I, poor fool! I
consoled her as best I could, I dried her tears, and excused her in
her own eyes. No, there was no husband. Do such women as she have
husbands? She was my father's mistress; and, on the day when he had
had enough of her, he took up his hat and threw her three hundred
thousand francs, the price of the pleasures she had given him."

Noel would probably have continued much longer to pour forth his
furious denunciations; but M. Tabaret stopped him. The old fellow felt
he was on the point of learning a history in every way similar to that
which he had imagined; and his impatience to know whether he had
guessed aright, almost caused him to forget to express any sympathy
for his friend's misfortunes.

"My dear boy," said he, "do not let us digress. You ask me for advice;
and I am perhaps the best adviser you could have chosen. Come, then,
to the point. How have you learned this? Have you any proofs? where
are they?"

The decided tone in which the old fellow spoke, should no doubt, have
awakened Noel's attention; but he did not notice it. He had not
leisure to reflect. He therefore answered,--

"I have known the truth for three weeks past. I made the discovery by
chance. I have important moral proofs; but they are mere presumptive
evidence. A word from Widow Lerouge, one single word, would have
rendered them decisive. This word she cannot now pronounce, since they
have killed her; but she had said it to me. Now, Madame Gerdy will
deny all. I know her; with her head on the block, she will deny it. My
father doubtless will turn against me. I am certain, and I possess
proofs; now this crime makes my certitude but a vain boast, and
renders my proofs null and void!"

"Explain it all to me," said old Tabaret after a pause--"all, you
understand. We old ones are sometimes able to give good advice. We
will decide what's to be done afterwards."

"Three weeks ago," commenced Noel, "searching for some old documents,
I opened Madame Gerdy's secretary. Accidentally I displaced one of the
small shelves: some papers tumbled out, and a packet of letters fell
in front of my eyes. A mechanical impulse, which I cannot explain,
prompted me to untie the string, and, impelled by an invincible
curiosity, I read the first letter which came to my hand."

"Be it so; anyhow I read. At the end of ten lines, I was convinced
that these letters were from my father, whose name, Madame Gerdy, in
spite of my prayers, had always hidden from me. You can understand my
emotion. I carried off the packet, shut myself up in this room, and
devoured the correspondence from beginning to end."

"I have them here, M. Tabaret," replied Noel, "and, that you may
understand the case in which I have requested your advice, I am going
to read them to you."

The advocate opened one of the drawers of his bureau, pressed an
invisible spring, and from a hidden receptacle constructed in the
thick upper shelf, he drew out a bundle of letters. "You understand,
my friend," he resumed, "that I will spare you all insignificant
details, which, however, add their own weight to the rest. I am only
going to deal with the more important facts, treating directly of the
affair."

Old Tabaret nestled in his arm-chair, burning with curiosity; his face
and his eyes expressing the most anxious attention. After a selection,
which he was some time in making, the advocate opened a letter, and
commenced reading in a voice which trembled at times, in spite of his
efforts to render it calm.

"'This is a happy day. This morning I received your darling letter,
I have covered it with kisses, I have re-read it a hundred times;
and now it has gone to join the others here upon my heart. This
letter, oh, my love! has nearly killed me with joy. You were not
deceived, then; it was true! Heaven has blessed our love. We shall
have a son.

"'I shall have a son, the living image of my adored Valerie! Oh!
why are we separated by such an immense distance? Why have I not
wings that I might fly to your feet and fall into your arms, full
of the sweetest voluptuousness! No! never as at this moment have I
cursed the fatal union imposed upon me by an inexorable family,
whom my tears couldnot move. I cannot help hating this woman,
who, in spite of me bears my name, innocent victim though she is
of the barbarity of our parents. And, to complete my misery, she
too will soon render me a father. Who can describe my sorrow when
I compare the fortunes of these two children?

"'The one, the son of the object of my tenderest love, will have
neither father nor family, nor even a name, since a law framed to
make lovers unhappy prevents my acknowledging him. While the
other, the son of my detested wife, by the sole fact of his birth,
will be rich, noble, surrounded by devotion and homage, with a
great position in the world. I cannot bear the thought of this
terrible injustice! How it is to be prevented, I do not know: but
rest assured I shall find a way. It is to him who is the most
desired, the most cherished, the most beloved, that the greater
fortune should come; and come to him it shall, for I so will it.'"

"From where is that letter dated?" asked old Tabaret. The style in
which it was written had already settled one point in his mind.

"See," replied Noel. He handed the letter to the old fellow, who
read,--

"You perceive," resumed the advocate, "all the importance of this
first letter. It is like a brief statement of the facts. My father,
married in spite of himself, adores his mistress, and detests his
wife. Both find themselves enceinte at the same time, and his feelings
towards the two infants about to be born, are not at all concealed.
Towards the end one almost sees peeping forth the germ of the idea
which later on he will not be afraid to put into execution, in
defiance of all law human or divine!"

He was speaking as though pleading the cause, when old Tabaret
interrupted him.

"It is not necessary to explain it," said he. "Thank goodness, what
you have just read is explicit enough. I am not an adept in such
matters, I am as simple as a juryman; however I understand it
admirably so far."

"I pass over several letters," continued Noel, "and I come to this one
dated Jan. 23, 1829. It is very long, and filled with matters
altogether foreign to the subject which now occupies us. However, it
contains two passages, which attest the slow but steady growth of my
father's project. 'A destiny, more powerful than my will, chains me to
this country; but my soul is with you, my Valerie! Without ceasing, my
thoughts rest upon the adored pledge of our love which moves within
you. Take care, my darling, take care of yourself, now doubly
precious. It is the lover, the father, who implores you. The last part
of your letter wounds my heart. Is it not an insult to me, for you to
express anxiety as to the future of our child! Oh heaven! she loves
me, she knows me, and yet she doubts!'

"I skip," said Noel, "two pages of passionate rhapsody, and stop at
these few lines at the end. 'The countess's condition causes her to
suffer very much! Unfortunate wife! I hate and at the same time pity
her. She seems to divine the reason of my sadness and my coldness. By
her timid submission and unalterable sweetness, one would think she
sought pardon for our unhappy union. Poor sacrificed creature! She
also may have given her heart to another, before being dragged to the
altar. Our fates would then be the same. Your good heart will pardon
my pitying her.'

"That one was my mother," cried the advocate in a trembling voice. "A
saint! And he asks pardon for the pity she inspires! Poor woman."

He passed his hands over his eyes, as if to force back his tears, and
added,--

In spite of his impatience, old Tabaret dared not utter a word.
Besides he felt keenly the profound sorrow of his young friend, and
respected it. After a rather long silence, Noel raised his head, and
returned to the correspondence.

"All the letters which follow," said he, "carry traces of the
preoccupation of my father's mind on the subject of his bastard son. I
lay them, however, aside. But this is what strikes me in the one
written from Rome, on March 5, 1829. 'My son, our son, that is my
great, my only anxiety. How to secure for him the future position of
which I dream? The nobles of former times were not worried in this
way. In those days I would have gone to the king, who, with a word,
would have assured the child's position in the world. To-day, the king
who governs with difficulty his disaffected subjects can do nothing.
The nobility has lost its rights, and the highest in the land are
treated the same as the meanest peasants!' Lower down I find,--'My
heart loves to picture to itself the likeness of our son. He will have
the spirit, the mind, the beauty, the grace, all the fascinations of
his mother. He will inherit from his father, pride, valour, and the
sentiments of a noble race. And the other, what will he be like? I
tremble to think of it. Hatred can only engender a monster. Heaven
reserves strength and beauty for the children of love!' The monster,
that is I!" said the advocate, with intense rage. "Whilst the other--
But let us ignore these preliminaries to an outrageous action. I only
desired up to the present to show you the aberration of my father's
reason under the influence of his passion. We shall soon come to the
point."

M. Tabaret was astonished at the strength of this passion, of which
Noel was disturbing the ashes. Perhaps, he felt it all the more keenly
on account of those expressions which recalled his own youth. He
understood how irresistible must have been the strength of such a love
and he trembled to speculate as to the result.

"Here is," resumed Noel, holding up a sheet of paper, "not one of
those interminable epistles from which I have read you short extracts,
but a simple billet. It is dated from Venice at the beginning of May;
it is short but nevertheless decisive; 'Dear Valerie,--Tell me, as
near as possible, the probable date of your confinement. I await your
reply with an anxiety you would imagine, could you but guess my
projects with regard to our child.'

"I do not know," said Noel, "whether Madame Gerdy understood; anyhow
she must have answered at once, for this is what my father wrote on
the 14th: 'Your reply, my darling, is what I did not dare expect it to
be. The project I had conceived is now practicable. I begin to feel
more calm and secure. Our son shall bear my name; I shall not be
obliged to separate myself from him. He shall be reared by my side, in
my mansion, under my eyes, on my knees, in my arms. Shall I have
strength enough to bear this excess of happiness? I have a soul for
grief, shall I have one for joy? Oh! my adored one, oh! my precious
child, fear nothing, my heart is vast, enough to love you both! I set
out to-morrow for Naples, from whence I shall write to you at length.
Happen what may, however, though I should have to sacrifice the
important interests confided to me, I shall be in Paris for the
critical hour. My presence will double your courage; the strength of
my love will diminish your sufferings.'"

"I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Noel," said old Tabaret, "do
you know what important affairs detained your father abroad?"

"My father, my old friend," replied the advocate, "was, in spite of
his youth, one of the friends, one of the confidants, of Charles X.;
and he had been entrusted by him with a secret mission to Italy. My
father is Count Rheteau de Commarin."

"Whew!" exclaimed the old fellow; and the better to engrave the name
upon his memory, he repeated several times, between his teeth,
"Rheteau de Commarin."

For a few minutes Noel remained silent. After having appeared to do
everything to control his resentment, he seemed utterly dejected, as
though he had formed the determination to attempt nothing to repair
the injury he had sustained.

"In the middle of the month of May, then," he continued, "my father is
at Naples. It is whilst there, that he, a man of prudence and sense, a
dignified diplomatist, a nobleman, prompted by an insensate passion,
dares to confide to paper this most monstrous of projects. Listen!

"'It is Germain, my old valet, who will hand you this letter. I am
sending him to Normandy, charged with a commission of the most
delicate nature. He is one of those servitors who may be trusted
implicitly.

"'The time has come for me to explain to you my projects respecting
my son. In three weeks, at the latest, I shall be in Paris.

"'If my previsions are not deceited, the countess and you will be
confined at the same time. An interval of three or four days will
not alter my plan. This is what I have resolved.

"'My two children will be entrusted to two nurses of Normandy,
where my estates are nearly all situated. One of these women,
known to Germain, and to whom I am sending him, will be in our
interests. It is to this person, Valerie, that our son will be
confided. These two women will leave Paris the same day, Germain
accompanying her who will have charge of the son of the countess.

"'An accident, devised beforehand, will compel these two women to
pass one night on the road. Germain will arrange so they will have
to sleep in the same inn, and in the same chamber! During the
night, our nurse will change the infants in their cradles.

"'I have foreseen everything, as I will explain to you, and every
precaution has been taken to prevent our secret from escaping.
Germain has instructions to procure, while in Paris, two sets of
baby linen exactly similar. Assist him with your advice.

"'Your maternal heart, my sweet Valerie, may perhaps bleed at the
thought of being deprived of the innocent caresses of your child.
You will console yourself by thinking of the position secured to
him by your sacrifice. What excess of tenderness can serve him as
powerfully as this separation? As to the other, I know your fond
heart, you will cherish him. Will it not be another proof of your
love for me? Besides, he will have nothing to complain of. Knowing
nothing he will have nothing to regret; and all that money can
secure in this world he shall have.

"'Do not tell me that this attempt is criminal. No, my well
beloved, no. The success of our plan depends upon so many unlikely
circumstances, so many coincidences, independent of our will,
that, without the evident protection of Providence, we cannot
succeed. If, then, success crowns our efforts, it will be because
heaven decreed it.

"And the wretched man," cried Noel, "dares to invoke the aid of
Providence! He would make heaven his accomplice!"

"But," asked the old fellow, "how did your mother,--pardon me, I would
say, how did Madame Gerdy receive this proposition?"

"She would appear to have rejected it, at first, for here are twenty
pages of eloquent persuasion from the count, urging her to agree to
it, trying to convince her. Oh, that woman!"

"Come my child," said M. Tabaret, softly, "try not to be too unjust.
You seem to direct all your resentment against Madame Gerdy? Really,
in my opinion, the count is far more deserving of your anger than she
is."

"True," interrupted Noel, with a certain degree of violence,--"true,
the count is guilty, very guilty. He is the author of the infamous
conspiracy, and yet I feel no hatred against him. He has committed a
crime, but he has an excuse, his passion. Moreover, my father has not
deceived me, like this miserable woman, every hour of my life, during
thirty years. Besides, M. de Commarin has been so cruelly punished,
that, at this present moment, I can only pardon and pity him."

"Yes, fearfully, as you will admit. But allow me to continue. Towards
the end of May, or, rather, during the first days of June, the count
must have arrived in Paris, for the correspondence ceases. He saw
Madame Gerdy, and the final arrangements of the conspiracy were
decided on. Here is a note which removes all uncertainty on that
point. On the day it was written, the count was on service at the
Tuileries, and unable to leave his post. He has written it even in the
king's study, on the king's paper; see the royal arms! The bargain has
been concluded, and the woman who has consented to become the
instrument of my father's projects is in Paris. He informs his
mistress of the fact.

"'Dear Valerie,--Germain informs me of the arrival of your son's,
our son's nurse. She will call at your house during the day. She
is to be depended upon; a magnificent recompense ensures her
discretion. Do not, however, mention our plans to her; for she has
been given to understand that you know nothing. I wish to charge
myself with the sole responsibility of the deed; it is more
prudent. This woman is a native of Normandy. She was born on our
estate, almost in our house. Her husband is a brave and honest
sailor. Her name is Claudine Lerouge.

"'Be of good courage, my dear love I am exacting from you the
greatest sacrifice that a lover can hope for from a mother.
Heaven, you can no longer doubt it, protects us. Everything
depends now upon our skill and our prudence, so that we are sure
to succeed!'"

On one point, at least, M. Tabaret was sufficiently enlightened. The
researches into the past life of widow Lerouge were no longer
difficult. He could not restrain an exclamation of satisfaction, which
passed unnoticed by Noel.

"What!" exclaimed the old fellow, "you are in possession of nothing
more?"

"I have also ten lines, written many years later, which certainly have
some weight, but after all are only a moral proof."

"What a misfortune!" murmured M. Tabaret. Noel laid on the bureau the
letters he had held in his hand, and, turning towards his old friend,
he looked at him steadily.

"Suppose," said he slowly and emphasising every syllable,--"suppose
that all my information ends here. We will admit, for a moment, that I
know nothing more than you do now. What is your opinion?"

Old Tabaret remained some minutes without answering; he was estimating
the probabilities resulting from M. de Commarin's letters.

"For my own part," said he at length, "I believe on my conscience that
you are not Madame Gerdy's son."

"And you are right!" answered the advocate forcibly. "You will easily
believe, will you not, that I went and saw Claudine. She loved me,
this poor woman who had given me her milk, she suffered from the
knowledge of the injustice that had been done me. Must I say it, her
complicity in the matter weighed upon her conscience; it was a remorse
too great for her old age. I saw her, I interrogated her, and she told
me all. The count's scheme, simply and yet ingeniously conceived,
succeeded without any effort. Three days after my birth, the crime was
committed, and I, poor, helpless infant, was betrayed, despoiled and
disinherited by my natural protector, by my own father! Poor Claudine!
She promised me her testimony for the day on which I should reclaim my
rights!"

"And she is gone, carrying her secret with her!" murmured the old
fellow in a tone of regret.

"Perhaps!" replied Noel, "for I have yet one hope. Claudine had in her
possession several letters which had been written to her a long time
ago, some by the count, some by Madame Gerdy, letters both imprudent
and explicit. They will be found, no doubt, and their evidence will be
decisive. I have held these letters in my hands, I have read them;
Claudine particularly wished me to keep them, why did I not do so?"

No! there was no hope on that side, and old Tabaret knew so better
than any one. It was these very letters, no doubt, that the assassin
of La Jonchere wanted. He had found them and had burnt them with the
other papers, in the little stove. The old amateur detective was
beginning to understand.

"All the same," said he, "from what I know of your affairs, which I
think I know as well as my own, it appears to me that the count has
not overwell kept the dazzling promises of fortune he made Madame
Gerdy on your behalf."

"That now," cried the old fellow indignantly, "is even more infamous
than all the rest."

"Do not accuse my father," answered Noel gravely; "his connection with
Madame Gerdy lasted a long time. I remember a haughty-looking man who
used sometimes to come and see me at school, and who could be no other
than the count. But the rupture came."

"Wait before judging," interrupted the advocate. "M. de Commarin had
his reasons. His mistress was false to him, he learnt it, and cast her
off with just indignation. The ten lines which I mentioned to you were
written then."

Noel searched a considerable time among the papers scattered upon the
table, and at length selected a letter more faded and creased than the
others. Judging from the number of folds in the paper one could guess
that it had been read and re-read many times. The writing even was
here and there partly obliterated.

"In this," said he in a bitter tone, "Madame Gerdy is no longer the
adored Valerie: 'A friend, cruel as all true friends, has opened my
eyes. I doubted. You have been watched, and today, unhappily, I can
doubt no more. You, Valerie, you to whom I have given more than my
life, you deceive me and have been deceiving me for a long time past.
Unhappy man that I am! I am no longer certain that I am the father of
your child.'"

"But this note is a proof," cried old Tabaret, "an overwhelming proof.
Of what importance to the count would be a doubt of his paternity, had
he not sacrificed his legitimate son to his bastard? Yes, you have
said truly, his punishment has been severe."

"Madame Gerdy," resumed Noel, "wished to justify herself. She wrote to
the count; but he returned her letters unopened. She called on him,
but he would not receive her. At length she grew tired of her useless
attempts to see him. She knew that all was well over when the count's
steward brought her for me a legal settlement of fifteen thousand
francs a year. The son had taken my place, and the mother had ruined
me!"

"Poor boy!" thought M. Tabaret when left alone. "What a fatal
discovery! and how he must feel it. Such a noble young man! such a
brave heart! In his candid honesty he does not even suspect from
whence the blow has fallen. Fortunately I am shrewd enough for two,
and it is just when he despairs of justice, I am confident of
obtaining it for him. Thanks to his information, I am now on the
track. A child might now divine whose hand struck the blow. But how
has it happened? He will tell me without knowing it. Ah! if I had one
of those letters for four and twenty hours. He has probably counted
them. If I ask for one, I must acknowledge my connection with the
police. I had better take one, no matter which, just to verify the
handwriting."

Old Tabaret had just thrust one of the letters into the depths of his
capacious pocket, when the advocate returned.

He was one of those men of strongly formed character, who never lose
their self-control. He was very cunning and had long accustomed
himself to dissimulation, that indispensable armour of the ambitious.

As he entered the room nothing in his manner betrayed what had taken
place between Madame Gerdy and himself. He was absolutely as calm as,
when seated in his arm-chair, he listened to the interminable stories
of his clients.

"Worse," answered Noel. "She is now delirious, and no longer knows
what she says. She has just assailed me with the most atrocious abuse,
upbraiding me as the vilest of mankind! I really believe she is going
out of her mind."

"One might do so with less cause," murmured M. Tabaret; "and I think
you ought to send for the doctor."

The advocate had resumed his seat before his bureau, and was
rearranging the scattered letters according to their dates. He seemed
to have forgotten that he had asked his old friend's advice; nor did
he appear in any way desirous of renewing the interrupted
conversation. This was not at all what old Tabaret wanted.

"The more I ponder over your history, my dear Noel," he observed, "the
more I am bewildered. I really do not know what resolution I should
adopt, were I in your situation."

"Yes, my old friend," replied the advocate sadly, "it is a situation
that might well perplex even more profound experiences than yours."

The old amateur detective repressed with difficulty the sly smile,
which for an instant hovered about his lips.

"I confess it humbly," he said, taking pleasure in assuming an air of
intense simplicity, "but you, what have you done? Your first impulse
must have been to ask Madame Gerdy for an explanation."

Noel made a startled movement, which passed unnoticed by old Tabaret,
preoccupied as he was in trying to give the turn he desired to the
conversation.

"What! did she not attempt to exculpate herself?" inquired the
detective greatly surprised.

"Yes! she attempted the impossible. She pretended she could explain
the correspondence. She told me . . . But can I remember what she
said? Lies, absurd, infamous lies."

The advocate had finished gathering up his letters, without noticing
the abstraction. He tied them together carefully, and replaced them in
the secret drawer of his bureau.

"Yes," continued he, rising and walking backwards and forward across
his study, as if the constant movement could calm his anger, "yes, she
pretended she could show me I was wrong. It was easy, was it not, with
the proofs I held against her? The fact is she adores her son, and her
heart is breaking at the idea that he may be obliged to restitute what
he has stolen from me. And I, idiot, fool, coward, almost wished not
to mention the matter to her. I said to myself, I will forgive, for
after all she has loved me! Loved? no. She would see me suffer the
most horrible tortures, without shedding a tear, to prevent a single
hair falling from her son's head."

"She has probably warned the count," observed old Tabaret, still
pursuing his idea.

"She may have tried, but cannot have succeeded, for the count has been
absent from Paris for more than a month and is not expected to return
until the end of the week."

"Yes, I. Do you think that I shall not reclaim my own? Do you imagine
that I shall not raise my voice. On what account should I keep silent,
who have I to consider? I have rights, and I will make them good. What
do you find surprising in that?"

"Nothing, certainly, my friend. So then you called at M. de Commarin's
house?"

"Oh! I did not decide on doing so all at once," continued Noel. "At
first my discovery almost drove me mad. Then I required time to
reflect. A thousand opposing sentiments agitated me. At one moment, my
fury blinded me; the next, my courage deserted me. I would, and I
would not. I was undecided, uncertain, wild. The scandal that must
arise from the publicity of such an affair terrified me. I desired, I
still desire to recover my name, that much is certain. But on the eve
of recovering it, I wish to preserve it from stain. I was seeking a
means of arranging everything, without noise, without scandal."

"Yes, after a struggle of fifteen days, fifteen days of torture, of
anguish! Ah! what I suffered in that time! I neglected my business,
being totally unfit for work. During the day, I tried by incessant
action to fatigue my body, that at night I might find forgetfulness in
sleep. Vain hope! since I found these letters, I have not slept an
hour."

From time to time, old Tabaret slyly consulted his watch. "M. Daburon
will be in bed," thought he.

"At last one morning," continued Noel, "after a night of rage, I
determined to end all uncertainty. I was in that desperate state of
mind, in which the gambler, after successive losses, stakes upon a
card his last remaining coin. I plucked up courage, sent for a cab,
and was driven to the de Commarin mansion."

The old amateur detective here allowed a sigh of satisfaction to
escape him.

"It is one of the most magnificent houses, in the Faubourg St.
Germain, my friend, a princely dwelling, worthy a great noble twenty
times millionaire; almost a palace in fact. One enters at first a vast
courtyard, to the right and left of which are the stables, containing
twenty most valuable horses, and the coach-houses. At the end rises
the grand facade of the main building, majestic and severe, with its
immense windows, and its double flight of marble steps. Behind the
house is a magnificent garden, I should say a park, shaded by the
oldest trees which perhaps exist in all Paris."

This enthusiastic description was not at all what M. Tabaret wanted.
But what could he do, how could he press Noel for the result of his
visit! An indiscreet word might awaken the advocate's suspicions, and
reveal to him that he was speaking not to a friend, but to a
detective.

"Were you then shown over the house and grounds?" asked the old
fellow.

"No, but I have examined them alone. Since I discovered that I was the
only heir of the Rheteau de Commarin, I have found out the antecedents
of my new family.

"Standing before the dwelling of my ancestors," continued Noel, "you
cannot comprehend the excess of my emotion. Here, said I, is the house
in which I was born. This is the house in which I should have been
reared; and, above all, this is the spot where I should reign to-day,
whereon I stand an outcast and a stranger, devoured by the sad and
bitter memories, of which banished men have died. I compared my
brother's brilliant destinies with my sad and labourious career; and
my indignation well nigh overmastered reason. The mad impulse stirred
me to force the doors, to rush into the grand salon, and drive out the
intruder,--the son of Madame Gerdy,--who had taken the place of the
son of the Countess de Commarin! Out, usurper, out of this. I am
master here. The propriety of legal means at once recurred to my
distracted mind, however, and restrained me. Once more I stood before
the habitation of my fathers. How I love its old sculptures, its grand
old trees, its shaded walls, worn by the feet of my poor mother! I
love all, even to the proud escutcheon, frowning above the principal
doorway, flinging its defiance to the theories of this age of
levellers."

This last phrase conflicted so directly with the code of opinions
habitual to Noel, that old Tabaret was obliged to turn aside, to
conceal his amusement.

"On presenting myself," continued the advocate, "I demanded to see the
Count de Commarin. A Swiss porter, in grand livery, answered, the
count was travelling, but that the viscount was at home. This ran
counter to my designs; but I was embarked; so I insisted on speaking
to the son in default of the father. The Swiss porter stared at me
with astonishment. He had evidently seen me alight from a hired
carriage, and so deliberated for some moments as to whether I was not
too insignificant a person to have the honour of being admitted to
visit the viscount."

"But tell me, have you seen him?" asked old Tabaret, unable to
restrain his impatience.

"Of course, immediately," replied the advocate in a tone of bitter
raillery. "Could the examination, think you, result otherwise than in
my favour? No. My white cravat and black costume produced their
natural effect. The Swiss porter entrusted me to the guidance of a
chasseur with a plumed hat, who, led me across the yard to a superb
vestibule, where five or six footmen were lolling and gaping on their
seats. One of these gentlemen asked me to follow him. He led me up a
spacious staircase, wide enough for a carriage to ascend, preceded me
along an extensive picture gallery, guided me across vast apartments,
the furniture of which was fading under its coverings, and finally
delivered me into the hands of M. Albert's valet. That is the name by
which Madame Gerdy's son is known, that is to say, my name."

"I had passed an inspection; now I had to undergo an examination. The
valet desired to be informed who I was, whence I came, what was my
profession, what I wanted and all the rest. I answered simply, that,
quite unknown to the viscount, I desired five minutes' conversation
with him on a matter of importance. He left me, requesting me to sit
down and wait. I had waited more than a quarter of an hour, when he
reappeared. His master graciously deigned to receive me."

It was easy to perceive that the advocate's reception rankled in his
breast, and that he considered it an insult. He could not forgive
Albert his lackeys and his valet. He forgot the words of the
illustrious duke, who said, "I pay my lackeys to be insolent, to save
myself the trouble and ridicule of being so." Old Tabaret was
surprised at his young friend's display of bitterness, in speaking of
these trivial details.

"What narrow-mindedness," thought he, "for a man of such intelligence!
Can it be true that the arrogance of lackeys is the secret of the
people's hatred of an amiable and polite aristocracy?"

"I was ushered into a small apartment," continued Noel, "simply
furnished, the only ornaments of which were weapons. These, ranged
against the walls, were of all times and countries. Never have I seen
in so small a space so many muskets, pistols, swords, sabres, and
foils. One might have imagined himself in a fencing master's arsenal."

The weapon used by Widow Lerouge's assassin naturally recurred to the
old fellow's memory.

"The viscount," said Noel, speaking slowly, "was half lying on a divan
when I entered. He was dressed in a velvet jacket and loose trousers
of the same material, and had around his neck an immense white silk
scarf. I do not cherish any resentment against this young man; he has
never to his knowledge injured me: he was in ignorance of our father's
crime; I am therefore able to speak of him with justice. He is
handsome, bears himself well, and nobly carries the name which does
not belong to him. He is about my height, of the same dark complexion,
and would resemble me, perhaps, if he did not wear a beard. Only he
looks five or six years younger; but this is readily explained, he has
neither worked, struggled, nor suffered. He is one of the fortunate
ones who arrive without having to start, or who traverse life's road
on such soft cushions that they are never injured by the jolting of
their carriage. On seeing me, he arose and saluted me graciously."

"Less than I am at this moment. Fifteen preparatory days of mental
torture exhausts one's emotions. I answered the question I saw upon
his lips. 'Sir,' said I, 'you do not know me; but that is of little
consequence. I come to you, charged with a very grave, a very sad
mission, which touches the honour of the name you bear.' Without doubt
he did not believe me, for, in an impertinent tone, he asked me,
'Shall you be long?' I answered simply, 'Yes.'"

"Pray," interrupted old Tabaret, now become very attentive, "do not
omit a single detail; it may be very important, you understand."

"The viscount," continued Noel, "appeared very much put out. 'The fact
is,' he explained, 'I had already disposed of my time. This is the
hour at which I call on the young lady to whom I am engaged,
Mademoiselle d'Arlange. Can we not postpone this conversation?'"

"I answered the viscount, that an explanation would admit of no delay;
and, as I saw him prepare to dismiss me, I drew from my pocket the
count's correspondence, and presented one of the letters to him. On
recognizing his father's handwriting, he became more tractable,
declared himself at my service, and asked permission to write a word
of apology to the lady by whom he was expected. Having hastily written
the note he handed it to his valet, and ordered him to send at once to
Madame d'Arlange, He then asked me to pass into the next room, which
was his library."

"One word," interrupted the old fellow; "was he troubled on seeing the
letters?"

"Not the least in the world. After carefully closing the door, he
pointed to a chair, seated himself, and said, 'Now, sir, explain
yourself.' I had had time to prepare myself for this interview whilst
waiting in the ante-room. I had decided to go straight to the point.
'Sir,' said I, 'my mission is painful. The facts I am about to reveal
to you are incredible. I beg you, do not answer me until you have read
the letters I have here. I beseech you, above all, to keep calm.' He
looked at me with an air of extreme surprise, and answered, 'Speak! I
can hear all.' I stood up, and said, 'Sir, I must inform you that you
are not the legitimate son of M. de Commarin, as this correspondence
will prove to you. The legitimate son exists; and he it is who sends
me.' I kept my eyes on his while speaking, and I saw there a passing
gleam of fury. For a moment I thought he was about to spring at my
throat. He soon recovered himself. 'The letters,' said he in a short
tone. I handed them to him."

The advocate laid his hand upon his friend's shoulder. "I was there,"
said he in a hollow tone; "and I promise you the letters were in no
danger."

Noel's features assumed such an expression of ferocity that the old
fellow was almost afraid, and recoiled instinctively. "He would have
killed him," thought he.

"That which I have done for you this evening, my friend," resumed the
advocate, "I did for the viscount. I obviated, at least for the
moment, the necessity of reading all of these hundred and fifty-six
letters. I told him only to stop at those marked with a cross, and to
carefully read the passages indicated with a red pencil."

"He was seated," continued Noel, "before a little table, too fragile
even to lean upon. I was standing with my back to the fireplace in
which a fire was burning. I followed his slightest movements; and I
scanned his features closely. Never in my life have I seen so sad a
spectacle, nor shall I forget it, if I live for a thousand years. In
less than five minutes his face changed to such an extent that his own
valet would not have recognized him. He held his handkerchief in his
hand, with which from time to time he mechanically wiped his lips. He
grew paler and paler, and his lips became as white as his
handkerchief. Large drops of sweat stood upon his forehead, and his
eyes became dull and clouded, as if a film had covered them; but not
an exclamation, not a sigh, not a groan, not even a gesture, escaped
him. At one moment, I felt such pity for him that I was almost on the
point of snatching the letters from his hands, throwing them into the
fire and taking him in my arms, crying, 'No, you are my brother!
Forget all; let us remain as we are and love one another!'"

"In about half an hour, he had finished reading; he arose, and facing
me directly, said, 'You are right, sir. If these letters are really
written by my father, as I believe them to be, they distinctly prove
that I am not the son of the Countess de Commarin.' I did not answer.
'Meanwhile,' continued he, 'these are only presumptions. Are you
possessed of other proofs?' I expected, of course, a great many other
objections. 'Germain,' said I, 'can speak.' He told me that Germain
had been dead for several years. Then I spoke of the nurse, Widow
Lerouge--I explained how easily she could be found and questioned,
adding that she lived at La Jonchere."

"He remained silent at first, and appeared to reflect. All on a sudden
he struck his forehead, and said, 'I remember; I know her. I have
accompanied my father to her house three times, and in my presence he
gave her a considerable sum of money.' I remarked to him that this was
yet another proof. He made no answer, but walked up and down the room.
At length he turned towards me, saying, 'Sir, you know M. de
Commarin's legitimate son?' I answered: 'I am he.' He bowed his head
and murmured 'I thought so.' He then took my hand and added, 'Brother,
I bear you no ill will for this.'"

"It seems to me," remarked old Tabaret, "that he might have left that
to you to say, and with more reason and justice."

"No, my friend, for he is more ill-used than I. I have not been
lowered, for I did not know, whilst he! . . . ."

The old police agent nodded his head, he had to hide his thoughts, and
they were stifling him.

"At length," resumed Noel, after a rather long pause, "I asked him
what he proposed doing. 'Listen,' he said, 'I expect my father in
about eight or ten days. You will allow me this delay. As soon as he
returns I will have an explanation with him, and justice shall be
done. I give you my word of honour. Take back your letters and leave
me to myself. This news has utterly overwhelmed me. In a moment I lose
everything: a great name that I have always borne as worthily as
possible, a magnificent position, an immense fortune, and, more than
all that, perhaps, the woman who is dearer to me than life. In
exchange, it is true, I shall find a mother. We will console each
other. And I will try, sir, to make her forget you, for she must love
you, and will miss you.'"

"I say that he is a fine young man; and I shall be delighted to make
his acquaintance."

"I did not show him the letter referring to the rupture," added Noel;
"it is best that he should ignore Madame Gerdy's misconduct. I
voluntarily deprived myself of this proof, rather than give him
further pain."

"What am I to do? I am waiting the count's return. I shall act more
freely after hearing what he has to say. Tomorrow I shall ask
permission to examine the papers belonging to Claudine. If I find the
letters, I am saved; if not,--but, as I have told you, I have formed
no plan since I heard of the assassination. Now, what do you advise?"

"The briefest counsel demands long reflection," replied the old
fellow, who was in haste to depart. "Alas! my poor boy, what worry you
have had!"

"Nonsense!" said the old fellow. "To-morrow I will give them to you to
take care of." But remembering he was about to put himself at M.
Daburon's disposal, and that perhaps he might not be free on the
morrow, he quickly added, "No, not to-morrow; but this very evening.
This infernal money shall not remain another night in my keeping."

He hurried out, and presently reappeared, holding in his hand fifteen
notes of a thousand francs each. "If that is not sufficient," said he,
handing them to Noel, "you can have more."

"Anyhow," replied the advocate, "I will give you a receipt for these."

"Then," said the old fellow to himself, thinking of his will, "I shall
still be your debtor. Good-night!" added he aloud. "You have asked my
advice, I shall require the night for reflection. At present my brain
is whirling; I must go into the air. If I go to bed now, I am sure to
have a horrible nightmare. Come, my boy; patience and courage. Who
knows whether at this very hour Providence is not working for you?"

He went out, and Noel, leaving his door open, listened to the sound of
his footsteps as he descended the stairs. Almost immediately the cry
of, "Open, if you please," and the banging of the door apprised him
that M. Tabaret had gone out. He waited a few minutes and refilled his
lamp. Then he took a small packet from one of his bureau drawers,
slipped into his pocket the bank notes lent him by his old friend, and
left his study, the door of which he double-locked. On reaching the
landing, he paused. He listened intently as though the sound of Madame
Gerdy's moans could reach him where he stood. Hearing nothing, he
descended the stairs on tiptoe. A minute later, he was in the street.